The dew sets
all
the branches trembling
As
it ripples like merino fleece.
Dew scurries like a hedgehog, shaking
Dry tufts of bristle on its nose.
I'm far from caring whose the chatter,
Floating from nowhere, I catch by chance.
What's done is like a farm in spring
When wrapped up in a smoking haze.
I'm far from caring what the cut
Fashions impose on clothing now.
Like dreams, they'll sweep away what's done,
Cooping up the poet in it.
Then drifting out through many gaps,
He'll seep, as does the curling smoke,
Through
all
the cracks of this age of doom
Into an aIley just as blind.
In wisps of smoke he'll then burst free
From rifts in shattered lives.
His grandsons will say, as of the peat:
''The age of so-and-so's aglow."
(Translated by George Reavey)
